


the fuzz don't miss

by polluxthescribe



Category: The Outsiders - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Hurt No Comfort, Mentions drinking, Mild Language, Other, Suicide, Wordcount: 100-500, dally's character is so hard to write :/, idk if it counts as one really, jally if you look closely, mentions drug use, mentions smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27484486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polluxthescribe/pseuds/polluxthescribe
Summary: One of the darker scenes in Hinton's book, rewritten in Dally's perspective.
Kudos: 8





	the fuzz don't miss

**Author's Note:**

> It's short, but still worth a read. I've been itching to write this down.

Dallas is running. Straight out of the hospital, down the street, blindly towards a random destination. He just can’t bear it. It’s too much. He’s blown up and he just can’t bear it anymore.

It could have been one of the idiot Socs, or some nameless citizen, or-- hell-- even one of the kids who got stuck in the burning church. Just not Johnny.

Not Johnny.

Please, please, anyone but Johnny.

But of course it’s Johnny who’s dead. Of all the damn people in Tulsa, of course it’s Johnny who’s dead. Johnny, barely a year younger than him but a good head shorter. Johnny, swallowed in his jeans jacket, with giant chocolate eyes peeking out from beneath long bangs. Johnny, often too afraid to speak. Johnny, whose sixteen years of life were all too short and all too full of the wrong experiences.

Those words don’t belong together, "Johnny" and "dead", and yet-- here they are, hand in hand.

Dallas isn’t entirely sure if he’s living the truth. He’s thinking that maybe he smoked the wrong cigarette, that he’s high or something. Or he could be drunk to the point of hallucination. Or he might have fallen off a horse at the rodeo and cracked his head.

Every step he takes down the busy street, the jolt of the impact zipping up his legs as they make contact with the pavement, the unwelcome shouts of pedestrians-- everything’s too loud-- everything brings him back to this awful reality. "Yeah, Dallas, he’s dead," they seem to be yelling as they whisk their children out of his way. "Johnny’s dead. He’s never coming back. Deal with it or join him."  
"--Join him."

Dallas looks around wildly, much like a hunted animal when it realizes that it’s trapped and there’s no way to run. His eyes scan over the afternoon scene when they land upon a sign. A grocery store.

It’s simple:  
Rush in.  
Mess everything up.  
Make sure that you’re seen.

He does just that, and then he remembers. The gang. He doesn’t think, he just runs over to the nearest phone and calls. He’s ensuring that they’ll be there, that they’ll know what happened. It’s his own way of bidding goodbye.

When Dallas bolts outside, the police-- fuzz, in local speak-- are just arriving. They pour out of their cars, ready to arrest him. He grins, because this is exactly what he needs.

He pulls out his gun. It isn’t loaded, but the fuzz don’t know that. They’re fooled, and they feel threatened. When they feel threatened, they shoot.

The fuzz don’t miss.


End file.
